


Which Path?

by LunarRangerWolf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Complete, Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Empathy, Friendship, Gen, Grumpy John, Hugs, Just.....angst, More angst, Multi, Mystery, No one likes Sally, Poison, Protective Sherlock, Serial Killers, Telepathic Abilities (sort of), even more angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-03-22 18:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13770243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunarRangerWolf/pseuds/LunarRangerWolf
Summary: (after Season 4) Sherlock and John receive an interesting note with a rather unusual message. Are they up to the test or is time going to run out for a new friend?Does include an OC of mine, so if you don't like those, the door is to your left.**Going through MAJOR editing!*





	1. On A Dark and Stormy Night....

**Author's Note:**

> First, I always put a song at the beginning of my fics, to either set the mood or give a hint to the reader as to the contents. Second, this is my first published fic, so please don't roast me too badly in the comments. :) Third, I know I didn't do a perfect job on British terms or slang, so if you see something I missed, please let me know in the comments. Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. It will make WAY more sense if you keep my original formatting. :)

Song: Burned by Grace Vanderwaal

       Dear Mr. Holmes,

        I regret to inform you that in a few weeks’ time, you will be called to the murder scene of one Angeline Lowel. It will probably be a violent scene, so please prepare accordingly. I so look forward to meeting you and Dr. Watson.

        Sincerely, '

            A. L.    

         Annie knew that it was freezing outside, she could feel the icy wind nipping at her numb fingertips, yet she didn’t button up her muffling coat. With a small smirk, she realized how uncharacteristically fashionable her outfit was: black knee-high boots hugged her calves in soft leather while her similarly-colored sweater-dress did little to warm her knees or thighs. A dark blue scarf accented her pale, honeyed skin without accentuating her features in any way. That was the motive behind her entire outfit; to seem as inconspicuous and unremarkable as possible. Her makeup was simple yet enhancing, her dark hair cut in the style of every other woman her age. She even wore chestnut-brown contacts so that her bright green eyes would not give her true purpose away. Taking a small breath, she rapped on the brass knocker of 221b Baker St.

         After being led up a flight of creaking stairs to Mr. Holmes’ apartment by a bustling, friendly woman in pale pink sleepwear, she found herself in what could only be described as a crazed bachelor’s hovel. A giant, blaringly yellow smiley face leered at her from one wall while a skull lurked on the mantlepiece.

        “Sherlock! You’ve got another one!”

         Still having a face-off with the gunshot, cartoon-sunshine, Annie smiled slightly, the woman’s summoning reminding her of the teasing way her mother spoke to Annie and her older brother. The landlady shuffled out, muttering something about no sleep. As Annie continued staring at the face, it’s smile seemed to grow in her field of vision until she could see nothing else. So terrifyingly happy.

         A floorboard creaked behind her, and she slowly turned around, blinking several times to clear her head. He wasn’t as awe-inspiring as she had hoped but she could see why so many women seemed to faun over him. With dark, curling hair and a sharp, uncaring face, the aura matched the name. Annie did have to hide a smirk, though, as he was dressed in a tattered bathrobe and slippers with a slightly not-all-there expression.

          “Mr. Holmes, what a pleasure it is to meet you.” She stuck out a still-frozen hand, unthawed by the apartment’s warm interior, but he just stared at it. Not at all perturbed, Annie continued, “I hope I am not disturbing you at this late hour.”

          Most people would have glanced their watch or muttered something about ‘no trouble at all’ but he continued to just stare. Feeling slightly dissected, she lowered herself onto the tan couch against the darkly-papered wall and smiled, more gently than the yellow face over her right shoulder. Holmes spun around abruptly and crashed into a dark brown leather chair in front of the fireplace.

          “What do you want?” he muttered, staring into air, his eyes unfocused and dazed.

            “I only want to ask you a question.” She folded arms on her chest, studying his profile. _So. . . . masked. No, that’s not the right word._ She searched her mind for a more accurate description, finally deciding on the word _hidden_. The veins of her jaw burned like acid, but she ignored the sensation.

            “Well go on then.” He seemed neither pleased nor displeased, his head propped up by a pale hand. His voice was laced with boredom and something akin to apathy, but not quite.

            “What am I feeling?” She knew what a risk it was, coming here just to get his attention, but it was necessary to take down the one who might kill her soon.

             He lifted his head, turning to study her. “What did you say?”

             “I want to know if you’re really as good as they say. So, what am I feeling?”

             His face darkened in concentration, but the spark of a challenge glinted in his light green eyes. Muttering to himself, he studied her as one might a fascinating insect. She raised one eyebrow and tilted her chin to accept the scrutiny, a curled lock falling out of her perfectly styled hairdo.

           “You’re the one who wrote the note.”

            She smiled a little disappointedly. Little white flashes darted across her eyes, making it hard to think clearly as her vision worsened by the second. “Yes, but you’re avoiding my question.”

           He didn’t seem to have heard her though. “But why? Why would you know when you were going to be murdered? You don’t have any enemies and your kind of work could hardly get you into many fights. You’re not in a relationship, and you don’t go out much. Cat. What would a cat have to do with anything? Well, of course you have one but pets almost never are murderers. You walked here, so that means you live nearby and don’t care about cold weather. Yet your hands are almost blue so you had to have been outside for a good while. Hands.”

           He held his out, palms up. “Give me your hands.”

           Instinct told her to curl her fingernails inward but she refused to give into the self-consciousness that she fought for so many years. Shaking ever so slightly, she placed her icy fingers on top of his, also palms up. After turning them this way and that, he dropped them and looked at her face again, concern brushing against the corners of his eyes.

          “So, Mr. Holmes,” she said, trying to keep the devil-may-care façade up even as her head began to spin, “have you figured me out yet?”

          Instead of answering, he rose from his chair and strode into the kitchen. “Tea?”

          While he banged about the small kitchen like a bear just awoken from hibernation, muttering about cups and sugar, Annie stood and moseyed to a wooden bookshelf by the fireplace, turning her ever wandering thoughts away from her racing heart and skittering pulse. Her numb fingers brushed the leather volumes as she read the titles to herself, subconsciously searching for familiar friends among the paper and ink. She pulled out a dark blue book, bound in gold, that read _Aphthonius: A Collected Works_ , flipping through its pages, reading not a word. After a few more pages of the consulting detective actively ignoring her, she huffed, replaced the book, and plopped down in a worn, red chair. Her stomach was starting to swish around like an astronaut at sea and she had the slight sensation that throwing up would help the discomfort, but she pushed it away.

           Humming a nonsensical tune to herself, she wondered how long it would take for the poison to work. If she had eaten breakfast at nine’ o’clock this morning, and it was eleven-thirty-one at night, she should have died hours ago. Was her blurry vision a symptom of her impending demise or her imagination adding non-existent symptoms? Or had she unnoticingly taken on something that someone else was experiencing? Continuing to hum, she closed her eyes and opened her mind to the world around her.

          There were some lingering emotions from the landlady, mostly affectionate frustration, which were easily addressed and dismissed. Turning her senses inward, she placed her hands on her knees and searched her own head. _Guilt. Loneliness. Curiosity. Fear._

           Now that her own emotions were labeled and recognized, she turned her mental focus to the apartment’s inhabitor. But when she reached out, all she could feel was a black mist. _Nothing and everything_. Her eyes flew open to see the detective sitting in front of her, smiling slightly. Panting a little from her search, she shoved her lifeless hands into her silken coat pockets and stared at the wooden, scuffed floor. _How? No one has been this hard to read. Not even that psychopath on my street last week._

          “You’re afraid. But why?” He said it so quietly that for a moment Annie wondered if the words were part of her imagination.

          Her stomach flipped and bile rose in her throat. Emotions started surfacing faster than she could push them away from her consciousness. _Fear. Sadness. Remorse._ Barely able to keep the contents of her stomach down, she muttered, “I’m so sorry. I thought I had been careful enough.”

          Comprehension draped Holmes’ face, along with that continuous wave of black. “You’ve been poisoned.”

          Standing, Annie had to grab the arm of her chair to remain upright. The emotions and sensation poured over her: the light smell of buttered toast from the kitchen; smooth and rough cloth underneath her dead fingers; that black, swirling, endless ocean of something from Holmes. _Regret. Deception. Guilt. Darkness. Dying. Drowning._ _Alone_. Her own emotions were taking over.

          “I…I think I need to…to use the loo.”

           Swaying slightly, she stumbled down the short hallway and into the small water closet. After emptying her stomach into the toilet, she sat on the cold floor with knees pressed against her chest. The dusty light from the fixture above the sink was too bright and the white tile was blaring up at her and the whole world felt like it was screaming at her. She held back a sob of panic and tried to calm her staggering heart. _Breath in four counts. Hold seven counts. Breath out eight counts._ But the grounding techniques did nothing to calm her racing mind. With a groan, she hauled herself off the cold floor. _Get something to drink. Focus on the outer world. Find somewhere quiet and dark. Get away from people_.

             Bracing herself with the wall, she half-hauled herself into the kitchen, her vision spinning with drugged unfocus. The table was covered in science equipment: beakers full of fire and blood and caution and long glass tubes of something and petri dishes and a black-handled magnifying glass. She didn’t know where Holmes had gone. It didn’t matter anymore though. They had gotten to her, they had won. All was lost. Her feet moved forward but her head moved back, unwilling to go a step forward. Without a single protest, she collapsed, her head hitting painfully against the floor. _I hope I don’t get a concussion…._

...............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

       The darkness. It was everywhere. Annie’s mind had warped her abilities to something monstrous. Something hated. She reached her hand out, trying to connect with the mist that drifted before her but it crept away. “Please. I need something to hold onto.”  
       A single tendril stretched out and touched her palm.  
      _Love. Hate. Rejection. Acceptance._ Trembling, she grasped the blackness, letting it connect fully with her, becoming part of the emotions. _Devotion. Doubt. Onism. Joy. Sorrow. Loneliness. Death._  
      She gasped and her eyes flew open. A soft blanket was draped across her and she was holding someone’s hand. His hand. Holmes was standing with his back towards her, talking to another man. _Dr. Watson._  
      _Concern. Gratitude. Restlessness. Depression. Anxiety. Love._ She could feel tears starting to surface. _So many emotions. So much pain._ Letting go of Sherlock’s hand, she stood up and threw her arms around him. He froze, as if he didn’t know what to do.  
      Starting to sob, she whispered, “You’re not alone.”  
      Then realizing that she was behaving entirely improperly, she let go of the stone-still Sherlock. Wiping her tears away before they could fall, she turned to Dr. Watson who looked increasingly uncomfortable. _Concern. Curiosity. Distrust. Pity._  
       “I’m sorry that was…. that was entirely improper. I’m not entirely myself currently.” She turned to Watson, smiling sweetly. “Dr. Watson, it is a pleasure to meet you. Apologies if I do not greet you properly, but I don’t think more contact with people would be good for me right now. Would you mind if I sat down? My head is still reeling from… from the poison. I assume that while I was unconscious, you examined me, as you are a doctor. But….”  
      Both men were looking at her strangely. _And here it was so nice being normal_. But something was not right. No one had touched her while she was unconscious. The emotions would have woken her over-stimulated brain.  
     “But Mr. Holmes told you not to……” her voice faded away, and she turned to Holmes who still looked quite befuddled. Almost as a whisper, she added, “you know. You know what I am.”  
      “Sherlock, what is she talking about?” Poor Dr. Watson looked like a hedgehog who had misplaced his quills. _Confusion. Worry. Wariness_. He was wary of her. Not that she could really blame him though. Sometimes, even she didn't trust herself.  
       Suddenly drained, Annie sank back onto the tan couch. “And here I thought I’d given you a puzzle. But nothing as ordinary as me could confound the great Sherlock Holmes. But at least you know now. My murder will be so much easier to solve, now that you know what I am.”  
       “What sort of unnatural person I am,” she added ruefully.  
       “If you’re unnatural, I’d hate to think of what I am.” He said it so quietly, that she was sure she was imagining it. The black mist turned to gray. _Hope. Belonging. Fear. Concern. Apathy_. The last emotion surprised her. It was forced, as if he wanted to feel nothing.  _So much like myself._  
       “Sherlock, can I speak with you? In private?” Dr. Watson looked so frustrated that she wondered if he would burst a vein.  
       Holmes strode into the kitchen, once again ruffling through cabinets like an ancient Viking on a raid. Dr. Watson glanced at Annie for a moment, then followed.  
       She could hear Dr. Watson trying to muffle his words, while Holmes did little to mask his replies. She briefly wondered if he was purposely letting her listen in.  
       “Of course I’m going to take the case. . . no I don’t know who’s trying to kill her . . . No she isn’t mental! . . . Where are those cups?! They were right here!”  
       “Sherlock, she is a teenager! We could get sued for even having her in our apartment!” Apparently that matter was so distressing that he couldn’t lower his emotional response. _Worry. Frustration. Discomfort. Annoyance. Brotherly Affection._  
        Annie almost raised her eyebrow at that one, but refrained from the response. Her head still ached and she couldn’t seem to turn off her empathic abilities. That black wave of something was still washing over her, even though Holmes was several feet away. Sighing, she rose from the couch and walked over to a window that looked out on the street below. Rested her forehead on the frosted glass, she glanced at the still-dark sky. _It must be at least 1 in the morning._ Wishing this night would end and the morning begin, she closed her eyes to the onslaught of sensations.  
      “Why won’t the poison just kill me already?” she muttered to the sympathetic stars in the frozen sky above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! So, I am slowly doing some major editing and fixing on this fic, so hopefully it will be a lot better. I am going on vacation in a few days and will hopefully be able to get a lot more done then as well. Stay alive!


	2. Tick Tock, Down the Clock

Chapter 2: Tick Tock, Down the Clock

Songs: Bleeding Out and Dream by Imagine Dragons

                Annie was lost. The passage of time meant nothing to her existenceless mind. Minutes passed like hours, and hours like seconds. Her chest clenched, her lungs spasming. She felt something hard propping her up, her legs numb and impossibly heavy. Every nerve was screaming. She wanted to leave. It was over. He had defeated her.

                Someone said her name. It was blurry, like someone whispering over a radio very far away. The emotions returned with the awareness, hammering into her already fractured mind. _Panic. Concern. Worry. Terror._

                “Help.” It was a whisper, a plea. Hoping someone, anyone, could stop the pain, could end her suffering.

                A hand was on her forehead, gentle and grounding. Someone touched her wrist, their warmth melting her glacial fingers. _Death. Gone. Lost. Hopeless._ Her heart skipped a beat, then two. Every nerve in her body screamed for this torture to stop. _Make it stop._

                Blackness hinted around her eyes. _No! I can’t give up. I can’t lose. I must keep going. I must stay alive, if only for today._ She wouldn’t let go.

                _Concentrate. What is your name? What is your favorite color? Where are you?_ She felt foolish, but the technique helped. With her eyes pressed tightly closed, she forced her mind to focus on one thing at a time, ignoring the pain and despair that threatened to drag her back into her mind. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, her breathing became less compulsive. Her emotions still came in flashes of white and blinding red, but she ignored them. All that mattered was the world around her. All that mattered was staying alive.

                “Angeline?”

Still with her eyes closed, she muttered, “Dr. Watson?”

“Oh thank God. Sherlock, she’s coming around.”

                She could hear more now; rain pattering on a window, muffled footsteps, someone breathing close by. Her dress was itching her neck, and her left ankle was cramped. She didn’t know why, however. Everything was so sharp yet dull, blinding yet blurry.

                “How are you feeling?”

                Annie flinched from the too-loud voice. “Terrible. I would not recommend ever taking whatever I was poisoned with.”

                “Can you describe what feels bad?”

                “Heart. Hard to breathe. I can’t seem to think straight either. Sensory overload. Numb legs.” She groaned as the numbness began to fade, fiery pain shooting up her legs, frying her nerves.

                A moment’s pause, then, “right, we’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

                An arm was slipped behind her back, supporting her weight. She felt so heavy, yet as fragile as a porcelain bird. “Sherlock, call an ambulance.”

                She shook her head vehemently, which only worsened her spinning mind and less-than-stable heart. “No. No hospital. No people. They’ll get to me. I’m fine. Just, help me stand up. I’ll be fine.”

                “Of course you’re not fine.” Holmes’ voice, almost angry. “John, what sort of poison would do this?”

                “How am I supposed to know?”

                “You’re the doctor, aren’t you?”

                Annie coughed. There was an awful taste in her mouth. _Metallic._ Panic swept through her body, the adrenaline searing the linings of her veins. _Blackness. Nothing but blackness._ She was going to die. She was going to die a horrible death and that monster was going to kill without restraint until no one was safe and all because she failed and. _No. I am going to live, dammit._

                She turned her head to look up at the man keeping her upright. “Dr. Watson, I need something. Something to keep me alive until we can fix this mess. I don’t care about aftereffects.”

                “I might have something.” Holmes sounded almost sorry for her. Almost. _Pain. Remorse. Helplessness. Apathy._

                “No! Sherlock, you are not giving drugs to a teenager!”

                “They don’t help anyway,” she muttered, but neither detective or blogger seemed to notice.

                Both men began to talk, but she wasn’t paying them any attention. Someone was calling her name. Someone far away, like a hawk’s cry high in the clouds. She wanted to leave. Weren’t they leaving? She was going on a quest with her friends to destroy the dragon. They were her knights in shining armor, while she was the huntress, waiting for the assistance to strike. _Focus. Concentrate. Stay in this world._

                “Angeline?”

                Her head was resting against Holmes’ shoulder this time, the bathrobe soft against her face, while Dr. Watson felt her neck for a pulse. His face was awash with wrinkles and she wanted to warn him that worrying would make them worse, but something told her that it wasn’t a good time to give beauty tips.

                “Yes, Captain?” her words were slurred and drunken. The poor Dr. was looking more concerned by the moment. _Worry. Determination. Adrenaline._ Annie hadn’t realized that was an emotion. Holmes was so tense, she wanted to tell him that she wouldn’t bite. _Perhaps he’s not used to contact,_ she mused.

                “Do you think you can walk downstairs?”

                She nodded slowly, trying to keep from keeling over. Lifting her head, she took one shuffling step forward and almost fell onto the wooden floor, dizziness crossing her vision.

                “This is going to take too long,” Holmes muttered. In what felt like a blur to Annie’s stuttering mind, he hooked an arm underneath her knees and lifted her into his arms.

                The mist of his mind drove into her brain like the cacophony of a frenzied symphony. _Hesitation. Excitement. Doubt. Fear. Determination._ She couldn’t handle the onslaught. It was too much. Far... too... much…

………………………………………………………………………………………………

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of this chapter will hopefully come soon. Life has been a lot recently.


	3. Puzzle Pieces

Song: The Game is On by David Arnold & Michael Price (Sherlock Soundtrack)

         “So, let me get this straight: you interviewed Thomas Stanley in his house and found out he was a serial killer? How on Earth did you come up with that?” Dr. Watson had referred back to his automatic state of confusion. He had returned to the lab an hour or so after Annie had awoken and had immediately given her a complete evaluation, while Sherlock added unhelpfully helpful commentary on Dr. Watson’s doctoring abilities and grilled Annie on her knowledge of Thomas Stanley.  

         Annie sighed and rubbed her hands over her eyes. She was so bloody tired, she could scream. “There were so many indicators. One, all the pill bottles. No one as healthy as he is could need all those,” she held up a hand to halt Dr. Watson’s refute. “No, it isn’t something underlining and no, they weren’t drugs; I checked. Two, he has a large vehicle. Who in London, or anyone nearby for that matter, drives a large truck? Only American’s use those often. Three, his book collection. Who owns _The Prince,_ _Mein Kampf,_ and _The Manifesto of the Communist Party_ without being slightly crazy? True, you could say that it was for research, but none of his fictional villains follow any of the advice in those books. Four, his pets.”

       “Pets?” Sherlock looked up from his phone, apparently listening more than he let on.

       “You said it yourself, Mr. Holmes. Pets are rarely murderers. Yet the state of his pets was less than….normal. His cat had a silver collar and immaculately groomed fir, while his Guinea pig hadn’t had its cage cleaned in a long time. Conclusion? Favoritism. While that might not be a big deal, tell me: why would one pet be beloved above the other? Why would he keep the Guinea pig if he did not wish to care for the poor creature? Unfortunately for him, Mr. Stanley left a pill bottle next to the Guinea pig’s cage and the poor thing was looking very sickly. . . .” She glanced from Sherlock to Dr. Watson. The consulting detective stared right through her, as if all the answers were written in the beige wall at her back. Dr. Watson rubbed the back of his neck, with a subconscious tick. Annie huffed.

       “I hope you know where I’m going with all this.”

       “I follow very well. Continue.” The monotone in Sherlock’s voice was back. Annie had begun to associate it with when he was focusing internally.

      “After our interview,” she continued, fiddling with the end of her braid, “I began to do a little research into the movie about his book. It was very odd to find that a single company, not previously associated with the film studio, had funded the entire project. But when I looked into the company, all I found was fake information on ‘promoting artists.’ Since I am terrible at hacking or anything technology related, I couldn’t find anything else. And that’s where you come in, Mr. Holmes. I know I’m right, but I don’t have the proper resources and am not very good at investigative thinking. I need some assistance with gathering the proof.”

     “What do you know about sponsoring company?” Sherlock had turned his attention to her, his bright eyes piercing with a mad-scientist gleam.

     Annie shrugged apologetically. “It’s called The Greuze Foundation. I think they have an office downtown, but I can’t exactly get in without a reason.”

     “Never mind that. We’ll think of one.” Sherlock stood up and snatched up his coat, which was draped on the chair next to Annie.

     “Molly!”

    Annie jumped at the sudden outburst.

    “Sherlock, she took Rosie home,” Dr. Watson informed, completely unperturbed by his friend’s dramatic words, as if it were an everyday occurrence to act as though they were on a stage.

    Sherlock hmphed. Pulling out his phone, he typed a for a moment, his fingers a blur over the screen. “Fine. We’ll start without her. Shall we, Miss Angeline?”

   He knotted a dark blue scarf around his neck and flipped his coat collar up. _How theatrical,_ Annie internally deadpanned.

   “Sherlock, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for her to move. She did just almost die.” But the doctor slipped on a jacket as well, his face creased in wrinkles of worry.

   “I’ll be fine. It’s not like this is the first time. And besides, you couldn’t accomplish a single thing with my help.” Annie grinned crookedly, and stood, slowly pulling out the IV needle. “So, Mr. Holmes, where are we going?”

   “We’re selling your book,” came the reply from hallway. Annie and Dr. Watson followed, both confused and bemused.

 _I am not whole,_ she thought, _but neither am I broken. But stars, I am tired._

_............................................................................................................................._

       It was rather cramped in the taxi with the three of them squashed together. Sherlock was still glued to his phone, the blue screen lighting up his face. Dr. Watson dozed with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, though the detective seemed to take no notice. Annie bit back a smile and rested her head against the window, as buildings flashed past them. _Emphasis on the word ‘seems.’ I wish I could read them. I’m sure Sherlock’s thoughts aren’t as nonchalant as he his face._

      She gazed up at the sky, her heart hopeful again. The clouds were breaking ever so slightly, their underbellies tinged rose with dawn. The words of her favorite song echoed in her head.

_Now, the night is coming to an end._

_The sun will rise and we will try again._

     The taxi stopped at a red light, and Annie hummed, watching sleepy businessmen, sore nurses, and the rest of the city’s work force plod across the street. One man remained on the side of the street to her left, his dark coat and suit blending in with the rest of the faceless crowd. His face, dark skinned and soft browed, seemed familiar…

     Annie ducked down, panic stabbing her already aching heart. _How did he find me?!?_ She didn’t move, trembling, until the taxi continued on, leaving the crosswalk, and the man, behind. She sighed in relief and settled back against her seat.

     “Who was that?” Sherlock still stared at his phone, not glancing once at her.

     “The man who poisoned me. And tampered with the brakes of my friend’s car. And set my hotel room in America on fire. I think the company who’s funding Stanley sent him to shut me up. I have to give him points for creativity if nothing else. He’s been stalking me for weeks now. Though, I thought I had finally gotten him off my trail. Apparently not.”

     Sherlock didn’t respond at first. Then, he held his phone out to her, a picture of herself displayed on the screen.

     “You’re a writer, correct?”

     “Yes. What does that have to do with our friendly neighborhood serial killer?”

     “You think like him.”

     “What?” Annie’s mouth dropped open slightly. She’d never thought of the author/murderer and her having anything in common. She was the chaotic good, he, the chaotic evil.

    “You’re both authors. You both have a passion for books, and you both have at lot at stake in this case. Tell me, what would drive you to kill for assurance?”

     She wanted to claim that they had nothing in common. That he was evil and different and inhuman and that she did not think like that. But, as usual, Sherlock was right. “He’s obsessed with words and he has this God complex with his characters.”

     Annie stared out the window, not really seeing the city around them. Her thoughts churned to when she had first met Mr. Stanley. During their interview, he had spoken at length of everything from the character’s favorite foods to their personal philosophies. “It’s like they’re real to him and must be protected. I think that’s why he’s killing for this company. They promote his works in exchange for dead bodies. Sadistic as it sounds, his world is everything to him, and having people respond to his works is his addiction. In his books, the characters aren’t just for the plot’s use. They _are_ the plot in this universe that he has wrapped himself it. Reality is only a temporary place, while his mind is the life-long home.”

     Dr. Watson sniffed loudly, rubbed at his nose, and dozed on, oblivious to the threat of deranged serial killers and stalkers in the night.

     As the taxi slowed to a stop in front of a tall, light stone building, Annie turned to look at Sherlock. “Do you really not know what happened to my mind?”

     He didn’t answer, just opened his door and stepped into the street. Dr. Watson sat up with a jolt, his eyes bleary and slightly dazed. With a small sigh, Annie lifted her aching body out of the taxi and into the new day.

 

...............................................................................................

Song: Demons by Imagine Dragons

      “And your book is about aliens?”

      Annie nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Aliens who come to Earth looking for a cure for the plague that is ravaging their home planet. Steve Moffet would love it!”

      Annie had no such story in the works, but that didn’t matter. Her purpose here was merely to cause a distraction, while Sherlock and Dr. Watson copied the computer database of Finn Inc., a publishing company that didn’t actually exist. Annie was surprised that they actually had fake staff. _Someone really wanted to keep the feds off their backs…._

     “Sorry. We’re not accepting new clients right now.” Her interviewer didn’t look at all sorry, but it was hard to tell around the hipster glasses and horribly fashionable beard.

     Annie added a little pout to her smile, hoping to seem air-headed. “Oh. Ok.”

     With a glance as his skeptically raised eyebrow, she knew that he didn’t believe a word she said. But, again, that didn’t matter.

     After she was ushered out of the slightly run-down building, she pulled out her phone, sending out a text. **Hope you’ve left.** Then, after a moment of no reply, she typed, **Where r u? I’m at the front of Finn. Will meet you two blocks down at the Indian café.**

    As she trudged down the street, every atom of her body screamed at her for rest. She hadn’t really had a quiet moment to herself for the past 24 hours, and she could feel the slow-moving poison beginning to work again. Her vision wouldn’t focus correctly, her pupils dilating and focusing over and over, making it feel as if gravity wasn’t doing its job. Though the sensation was unpleasant, she batted it away, like a fly that could be ignored if one tried hard enough.

    Very few people were on the street, as it was still early morning. Stopping for a moment, she pulled her phone out of her coat pocket, staring at the screen until her eyes focused properly. **8:13**. That meant that she hadn’t slept in, oh, around 30 hours. _No wonder my head hurts so much. Though, that could just be a side affect of the poison._

    When she reached the little café, her stomach grumbled loudly. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before, and that was hardly enough to sustain her. _I’ll grab a bite while waiting for them. It’s not like my stalker can poison me here, anyway. Though, it would seem a little overkill to poison me twice._ She pulled on the door, her fingertips brushing the peeling red paint around the door handle. A cheerful bell tinkled at her in a welcome, as the smell of curry, basil, and oregano hit her nose in mouth-watering waves. As if in agreement with her nose, her stomach growled in a very un-ladylike manner.

     After ordering rice appe and curried beef, she thanked the owner in broken Hindi, taking her food out to a small table that sat underneath the restaurant’s window. A light breeze brushed against her bare knees, and she smiled down at her tall boots. Before they had left the lab, she had asked Molly where she had put her boots. Confused, Molly said, “Your boots?.”

    “I put them behind your chair,” came the reply from Dr. Watson, who was busy shoving on his own jacket.

     Looking back on it now, Annie wondered if Dr. Watson had begun to take a liking to her. Or maybe he’s just protective of his patients. Lost in her thoughts and in her bowl of rice appe, her phone’s vibrating notification made her startle. Tapping in a quick code, the screen displayed an accusing alarm. **10,000 hits on “One of Us.”**

    Annie groaned. With all of the recent events, she had completely forgotten about her blog. With a few quick swipes, she logged into the website and was typing a hasty apology to her readers. **Greetings fellow wanderers! I’m not going to be able to post today, but I have a big project coming, so be on the look-out for that. Stay strong, keep moving forward. Love, Epione.**

   “That’s an interesting name.” Internally, Annie started. But she knew who it was and forced her body to relax.  

    “Thanks. It’s Greek.” She could almost hear Sherlock smile, as he and Dr. Watson sat down in the hard, metal chairs next to her. But no expression was on his sharp face, and she still couldn’t feel any other emotions. Hers were coming in bursts now, but it did little comfort her. She had relied on her abilities for so long, it was highly disconcerting without them. 

    “You get what you needed?” she directed the question at Dr. Watson, knowing that Sherlock was receding into his mind again.

    “Yes and no. We have enough information to frame the so-called company, but there’s no criminal connection between them and Stanley. Which means…”

    “That it won’t really stop him.” Annie had been afraid of that. Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to focus her spinning vision. _This is getting annoying. Will I ever recover?_

   “Dr. Watson,” he turned his attention from the busy street to her, “how long will the stuff you give me last? How long do I have?”

    He sniffed and rubbed at his nose. Sherlock continued to stare without seeing. “Maybe, 12 hours before I’ll have to give you more.” He stared at her, and she knew he was taking in her unfocused eyes and pale complexion. “Unless you think you need more…”

   “No, I’m fine. I—” she gasped as something pierced her, like a knife being dragged over her skin. _Danger. Fear. Anxiety. Helplessness._

   “Angeline?”

    Her hands gripped the iron table, trying to ground her out of her mind. Slowly, the emotions passed, like a receding tsunami. She shook her head to clear it, immediately regretting it as her stomach protested. “Sorry,” she muttered, still looking at her white, iced-over hands, “that was sudden. I’m fine.” Although she felt sick to her stomach, hope began to blossom. _I’m not broken! I can still feel._ But dread accompanied the hope. _What if I have these often? I don’t think I can handle it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will post more tomorrow, pinkie promise! ;)
> 
> More tomorrow!!! Been busy with school and all  
> I am so sorry, but I'm not feeling good today. As I'm still on spring break, I'll try to update tomorrow. Love you, my lovely readers!


	4. No One Likes Sally Donovan

Song: Migraine by twenty one pilots and Inner Demons by Julia Brennen

                John sighed and rubbed at his eyes. After several hours of he, Sherlock, and Angeline brainstorming without success, he had made an executive decision to send them all to bed. It was clear that Angeline was beginning to feel the effects of the thallium sulfate, even though she tried to hide it. Her emotional episodes came and went, and though intense, he was amazed at how she drove forward without a doubt. _How is she not dead?_ He had been asking himself that question for the past few hours, as he sat at the kitchen table, Rosie nestled in his arms. His arms had fallen asleep a few hours ago, but he didn’t have the heart to put her down. She looked so peaceful and safe.

                His phone pinged. **Baker St. -SH** He groaned, and stood, gently carrying Rosie to her crib. One cup of coffee and one phone-call later, he and Rosie were out the door, on a bus, and heading to Molly’s place. As usual, several people had to coo over his adorable daughter. One woman played with the child’s toes and murmured, “oh I bet your momma is so proud of her angel.”

                John smiled, muttered a thank you, and moved towards the door as Molly’s address neared. Though he knew the woman meant well, it still hurt to think of Mary. _She would be proud._ Just yesterday, Rosie’s babbling had begun to sound like vowels and consonants. It was only a matter of time until she started forming words. He hated that Mary wouldn’t be there to hear her first word. He hated that she wouldn’t see their daughter take her first steps or attend her first day of school. But, he knew that the hatred didn’t change a thing. Mary was gone, and Rosie only had him now.

                After ensuring the Molly was comfortable with the still-sleepy child, he boarded another bus and was at Sherlock’s apartment by 0930. When he entered the living room, Angeline was sitting on the couch, dressed in one of Mrs. Hudson’s bathrobes, her legs crossed and eyes closed. She didn’t look strained, and her complexion had improved since yesterday. _Maybe she’s fighting off the Thallium_. But as much as John hoped that was true, he knew that it was very unlikely.

                Sherlock was puttering around the kitchen, placing out mugs and setting the kettle on the stove.

                “Morning.”

                The consulting detective didn’t respond as he ruffled through cabinets. With a sigh, John reached behind the microwave and pulled out the tea tin. “So, what’s the plan today?”

                “She’s going to Stanley’s house.”

                John almost dropped the box of tea. “Sherlock! He’s already trying to get her killed and you want to send her off to confront him like some telly supervillain?”

                “Yes exactly!” Sherlock dropped a spoon onto the counter, the metal ringing against the stone. “He’s a character in his own mind! He’s addicted to the flare of the dramatic. So, we give him what he wants.”

                John frowned. “But if we give him what he wants, what’s to keep him from killing her?”

                The kettle whistled, and Sherlock poured water into the three cups. “That’s a risk we’ll have to take.”

                “Right. And has occurred to you that she has a say in this? It’s not just up to you, you know.”

                “Of course I know!” He snapped, glaring at John. “She’s already agreed to it.”

                “What? But she’s not in the best state and I don’t know how much longer until…”

                “It’s alright, Dr. Watson. I’ve made my choice.”

                He turned to see Angeline leaning against the doorframe. Her hair cascaded around her shoulders and she no longer wore makeup. Dark circles pooled under her bright green eyes. _She had brown eyes before…._

                She gestured up at her face. “I know. The brown eyes were contacts.”

                “How…. Never mind. How are you feeling?”

                She laughed ruefully. “Like I’m half-dead. Well, on second thought, maybe I am.”

                “Probably not.” John had meant to sound reassuring, but instead it came off as terse. Just as he was about to apologize and ask if he could examine her, a voice sounded from the living room.

                “What are you doing here?” Lestrade stood in the doorway, glancing suspiciously at Angeline.

                Smiling gently, she turned towards him. “Detective, how nice to see you again.” John couldn’t tell of the comment was sarcastic or not, and apparently, neither could Lestrade. He stood blinking for a few moments, pondering how to respond.

                “How, how do you know each other?” He could guess, but he still wanted confirmation. The girl had been one step ahead of them before.

                “I went to my aunt and the Detective with my theories before, but sadly had to come to you for help instead.”

                “Who’s your aunt?”

                As if on cue, Sally Donovan strode into the room, glancing first at Sherlock, who had a cup of tea poised at his lips; John, who was stood directly behind Angeline; the girl, with her arms crossed, leaning against the kitchen doorframe; and Lestrade who stood stock-still next to the red chair by the fireplace. Her focus swiveled back to Angeline, who was smiling pleasantly, though John could see that her shoulders were tense.  

                “What the hell are you doing here?” Sally looked as if she was about to blow a fuse.

                Angeline glanced back at John. “She’s my aunt.”

                Sherlock muttered into his cup, “oh you poor soul.”

                John could see Angeline smothering a grin, as he himself struggled to keep his face expressionless.

                Setting down his cup, Sherlock strolled to his chair, exclaiming, “Christmas must be horrible with her!”

                Laughing, Angeline mimicked his walk, plopping down in the red chair. “It is! I have no idea why my father married into that family. I was horrified when I found out, and I didn’t exist yet!”

                The two jesters giggled, while Lestrade grinned crookedly and Sally fumed.  

                “And here I thought my little brother was the only immature one.”

                Without looking up, Sherlock smirked again, his fingers poised in a triangle. “That implies that you are a mature one. Which we both know is entirely incorrect.”

                Mycroft glowered in the doorway, an umbrella clutched in one hand.

                “Sherlock,” John started, “while this is hilarious, what is everyone doing here?”

                The smile disappeared from his face as quickly as it had come, and John regretted speaking. Angeline cleared her throat, and some message which John could not understand passed between her and the detective. With a sigh, the girl replied, “Thank you for your consideration, Dr. Watson. Unfortunately, we are a little in over our heads with this case and need all of your help. Mr. Holmes, would you like to explain the situation, or shall I?”

                “Go on.” To others, the response would seem callous, but John knew that he was merely deep in his mind palace. _Does Angeline have a mind palace as well?_ He knew her brain worked differently than most, but she didn’t display the same tendencies as Sherlock. Or, perhaps she was better at hiding things.

                “Right.” Angeline sat straighter, pushing her messy hair away from her emerald eyes. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, and I are on a case to stop a hidden serial killer, commonly known as Thomas Stanley. Unfortunately, his latest victim happens to be me. After I unmasked him, he contacted some people to get rid of me. Those people work for a fake publishing company called Finn Inc.. Basically, they promote his books in exchange for him killing people.” She held up a hand as Lestrade began to open his mouth. “Yes, I know what you all are thinking. How did we figure this all out? Well, after we copied all of Finn Inc.’s files, we realized that while it was easy enough to frame the company for fraud, illegal tampering of bank statements, et cetera, nothing would truly trace back to Mr. Stanley. That’s where you all come in. Mr. Holmes and I have decided to give him exactly what he wants. If I go back to his house, pretending to ‘get caught,’ he’ll have exactly what he wants. But, there’s a catch: we need an untraceable bug. I have no doubt that the one the company placed on me has been lost, but that doesn’t mean as soon as I go out of hiding they won’t find me again. Detective, we need you to have a full team on call as soon as we get enough evidence to put him under bars. Mr. Holmes the elder, we need you to give a maybe not entirely legal, bug that I can put on my person. If you can, it would be most helpful if said bug could send back live transmissions to here so that we can record it all for future reference. Any questions?”

                Sally frowned, clearly upset that her niece had been right all along. “Why am I here?”

                Angeline turned her head far back, so that she could mimic her aunt’s frown, upside-down. “I don’t entirely know. I didn’t invite you.”

                Lestrade spoke up, looking down at his toes awkwardly. “I picked her up on my way to work when Sherlock called.”

                “Interesting,” muttered Sherlock, still with his hands in the ‘I’m thinking’ position. _Does he only do that to be dramatic?_

                “Right then." Angeline brought her head back up, though John noticed that for a moment her eyes rolled back in her head. "Everyone know what you’re supposed to be doing? Good. Now, Dr. Watson, I believe that I will need more of that Regintine before we stage this escapade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a little random, but at least it isn't filler. I am trying to avoid filler as much as possible, as I believe it makes a writer lazy. Anyway, hope you all like it, please give me any and all feedback. Love ya, stay alive! <3


	5. Genius Has It's Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft does not approve.

Song: Superheroes by The Script

          “What do you think of my brother?”

          Annie started. Mr. Holmes Sr. had walked up behind her without her noticing his steps on the muffling carpet. Smiling politely, she turned back to the window. She liked the view from this spot. London rushed by in a stream of busy ignorance, each person only paying attention to their own lives in the midafternoon grey. _What would it be like to be that solitary?_  

        When she had first met the elder Holmes brother, she had wondered why he, of all people, had taken an interest in their case. After all, he was obviously a person of authority, even if his little brother constantly teased and mocked him. Yet, he had been diligent in getting them the required bug, which Dr. Watson and Sherlock were now connecting to Dr. Watson’s laptop so that they could observe and record Annie’s confrontation with Mr. Stanley.

         She turned back to Mr. Holmes, arching her eyebrow. _There are some perks to being a teenager with an ‘attitude.’_ “Does it matter what I think?”

        “Not really,” he replied, looking down his nose at her. “But we both know that you are more than average.”

         Annie bit her lip, her mind racing. _If he’s not ‘normal’ either, maybe he knows what happened to my mind_. Though she had grilled Dr. Watson on his knowledge on neuro science, he hadn’t told her anything she didn’t already know. It was continually frustrating to be among some of the smartest people in England, yet no one knew what in her mind had broken.

      “Well,” she started, slowly annunciating each syllable, “I think he is egotistical, incredibly brilliant, and feels a lot more than he says. It’s like he doesn’t...want to feel, so he doesn’t let himself.”

      There was a long pause as Mr. Holmes continued to stare at her as one might a time bomb, with concern, curiosity, and veiled fear. _No, fear isn’t the right word. Maybe…apprehension?_ “Miss Lowell, you know that there is a very small percentage that you will get out of this alive.”

         She nodded, pushing her emotions down. _Now’s not the time_. They had all been walking around the topic like broken glass, everyone too awkward and polite to mention it. But they were all thinking it. She was already slowly dying from the poison, and who knows what could happen at Mr. Stanley’s house. “Mr. Holmes, I assure you, I am ready to do whatever is necessary.”

        “Oh, I’m sure you are. But, what happens if you fail?”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

**Dust settles,**

**Around my mind,**

**Pieces of,**

**A forgotten time.**

**What’s a cloud,**

**Without the rain?**

**What’s the sun,**

**At end of day?**

**Serenity and obscenities,**

**Balance must reside.**

**The universe turning,**

**Until Time passes by.**

          Annie frowned, reading over what she had written. The rhyming wasn’t smooth and something had to be done about that ninth line. She knew it was imperative that she continue blogging like any other day, to keep up the façade of normalcy, but the words just weren’t coming like they normally did. _Some writer you are_. Groaning, she turned off her phone, looking down at herself. Three days ago, when she had first knocked on the door of 221b Baker St., her clothes had been clean and well pressed. Now her dress was wrinkled, starting to look faded as if the garment was exhausted from being worn for days on end without rest, and her coat had a tea stain on the right sleeve. She stood up from the couch and approached Dr. Watson, who was sitting at the small table nestled between the two windows. He was typing away on his laptop, though at what she could only guess. Sherlock was off on some errand, and the rest of their crime-fighting crew, if they could be called that, were also making preparations for the showdown. The whole situation made her want to laugh at how cliché their plan was. Since when has anyone caught a villain this way? But it was the only plan they had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More is coming, I promise


	6. The Final Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting kidnapped on purpose is really hard! And I just had to do the thing with ending texts with 'x.' (what is with Europeans and doing that??)

* * *

Song: This is Gospel by Panic! At the Disco (piano version)

**Dear Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,**

**If you are reading this, then I am dead. I’m sorry it had to end this way, but I was always prepared to leave you for the sake of justice. I know it must be a disappointment, but do not take it personally. If I am dead, it is from my own triumphant failure, and none of your doing. I only hope I took the horrific Mr. Stanley with me, though I dearly hope we are not going to the same place, as that would make for awkward conversation. I wanted to thank you for all you have done for me over the past week. It has not been easy, but it would have been a much more arduous journey without your assistance. Please give Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Detective Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Miss Hooper my best regards and thanks. May the stars shine on your path and the moon smile on your journey.**

**Angeline “Annie” Lowell**

      Annie sighed as she finished typing the message, making sure to hide the screen from Dr. Watson, as they walked to the bus stop. Though a taxi was more convenient, she did not want Mr. Stanley to believe she had allies. Detective Lestrade had been most helpful in removing her tail ‘on suspicion of armed robbery,’ but they still had to be very vigilant in case others were watching. She sincerely hoped the message would not be necessary, but Death would not catch her unprepared. She had written similar letters to her parents, older brother, and friends, all of whom she had been lying to the past week with ‘I’m fine’s and ‘just busy with work.’ She hated deceiving them, but it was necessary to keep up the cover.

       After giving Rosie’s hand a gentle squeeze and a strong smile to Dr. Watson, she boarded the bus. Taking a seat on the far end of the yellow and grey interior, an alarm went off in her head. _Something’s wrong._ As Time shoved more distance between her and the poison, her abilities were gradually returning, though without the strength they had before. Annie hoped it was just a phase and that she would return to herself soon enough, but there was no knowing for certain. Even after researching for years, she had found very little about people like her and what there was about them was vague and rather supernatural in nature. As if there was anything supernatural about her.

       She shoved her hand into her purse, pretending to search for something in the leather bag while scanning the bus. There was an older woman with several shopping bags at her feet, a business man in a bright red tie and scuffed shoes staring at his smart phone, a young woman in a white waitress uniform, and a middle-aged mother with two children. Something about the business man caught her subconscious’ attention. _He’s off._ _What’s off?_ She mentally asked herself, wondering what her instincts could have pinpointed. _Shoes._ Pulling her phone out of the purse, she glanced at his shoes, then to his phone, then back to his shoes. The phone had no markings of any technology companies, which wouldn’t be too odd for a hotshot executive, but his shoes were scuffed severely on the sides, with a chalky dusting on the toes. _What would a man like that be doing in a place that would mess up his shoes so badly? And in the early morning._ And then she noticed the bump on the inside of his jacket. _Gun._

       She leaned against the back of her seat as her pulse flittered in apprehension. As calmly as she could, she logged into her blog and sent a quick message. **Guy doesn’t like to be followed. But hounds are so often made of lava. Hopefully the river will put him out.** She posted the message to her ‘Puzzles’ section and waited.

       The man’s phone pinged, and she glanced at her device to see that the reader count had changed from zero to one. _That can’t be a coincidence._

       She turned glance up at the address displayed on the front of the bus. _Close enough._

       When they reached the stop, she didn’t even look at the man, but strode off the vehicle onto the street. Her boots clacked on the pavement as she made her way to the tube entrance, not daring to look behind her. While she waited for her ride, she sent a quick text. **Being followed. Will try to lose him. Going to my apartment for supplies x.**  A moment later, then the reply: **Are you sure that’s safe?**

       Typing fast, she glanced around the platform, not seeing her latest stalker. **No. But I can’t go without them x.**

       The words flew across her screen a second later. **Be careful. Call if you need help. Even if it’s inconvenient. –SH**

**Will do. Is the tracker working? x.**

      This time, it was Dr. Watson’s number that replied. **Yes. Why are you near Parliament?**

**Took a few wrong turns. Hoping to get lost in the London Library. It’s 17 miles of books after all x.**

**That’s in St. James,** came the reply from Sherlock’s phone.

**I know. Hoping to lose my tail before I reach it. Might have to move our plan to tonight instead. x.**

       A moment’s pause as a train sped past her, kicking up ripped advertisements and stray food wrappers. The reply came as the last of the cars flew past and disappeared down the dark tunnel. **Will inform Lestrade.**

       She sighed, turning to glance at the schedule of trains coming and going. There was one to St. James, but that would be too direct. The library was open until 9:00 p.m. but she didn’t want to get there at closing time, as that would draw too much attention. _If it’s 10:19 a.m. now, I could get to the library at lunch time and hit the lunch break rush. The more people, the better._

                (Song: Whatever It Takes by Imagine Dragons)

       Creeping up to her door, she pulled her keys out of her purse, glancing up to the roof to make sure no one was looking down at her. _If I was a murderer for hire, I would always come from above, because no one looks up._ Her hands shook as she grasped the door handle, cracking it open to reveal her seemingly empty flat. Though it was in a richer part of town, she kept the decorations humble, simple, and artistic. A small kitchen led to a breakfast table adjoined to the foyer, while the small hallway leading to her bedroom was decorated with simple paintings. The air felt stiff, as if it had not been breathed in for quite a while.

       “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she muttered to herself, smirking, as she flipped on the hall light. Dumping her bag onto the floor, she strolled into the small kitchen, wrinkling her nose at the slight smell of burnt pastry. Though it had been a week since she had ruined her first attempt at Baked Alaska, the smell still leaked out of the scrubbed oven.

        After feeding the small school of fish residing next to her eating table, she paraded past her bathroom to her sleeping cave, ensuring that whoever was hiding in her apartment would know where she was. _Who knew how hard it is to get kidnapped on purpose?_

         Slamming the door, she kicked off her boots and flopped onto the messily made bed, pulling out her phone. **Hey baby! So sorry, but I don’t think I can go out with you tonight. An old friend iS going to pick me up and Take me to her house. MAybe after dinNer, you can swing by? I’m sure she’d Love to mEet You! Make sure to invite Greg too! <3 **

_Please make sure that Sherlock knows what I’m talking about,_ she begged to the void, hoping that her hints we’re too obvious. Standing, she locked her door, and walked to her closet. Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the door and let out a well-prepared shriek of surprise.

         A man stood in between two of her dresses, his dark hair pulled into a ponytail. _How cliché._ She took one, two steps backwards, the back of her calves bumping against the metal frame of her bed. He lunged forward, smashing a black cloth against her mouth. She shrieked in anger, not forcing the emotion. _Don’t try too hard,_ she reminded herself as she fell backwards onto the bed, the man pressing her down, the cloth smothering her breathing. _If the drugs don’t get to me first, perhaps he’ll….._ Her brain began to slow down, and her body felt like it was solidifying into stone, joint and muscle and neuron winding down like the end of a cassette tape. _What is with me and passing out?_

* * *

 

          (Song: See You Again by Carrie Underwood)

          Her nose tickled with the scent of warm coffee and cherry Danish. Memories flashed past her eyes in bittersweet scenes of ghosts. _Her brother was home. Mum and Dad pattered around the kitchen, grinning like Cheshire cats. David was sitting next to her on the bar stools, his favorite fuzzy blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a superhero cape. To Annie, he didn’t need a cape; he was already her hero. His eyes were still rimmed in dark circles after his final battle with the demon that had infected his body. But he had won. The cancer was gone, after five long years. Now, at sixteen, his smooth head did little to diminish how head-turning his dark brown eyes and long eyelashes were. When she was younger, Annie envied her brother’s good looks. But once the cancer had invaded their house, all petty disagreements had faded away with her brother’s health._

_Her mother placed a white china plate before each of them, freshly baked Danish complete with white frosting resting on each. Annie had never seen her mother smile and almost cry so much. Every few minutes she dabbed at her eyes with the dishtowel. Annie didn’t have the heart to tell her how insanitary that was. Joy, relief, hope, and gratitude washed over all of them that golden morning._

         Annie’s eyes flew open, unshed tears staining her mascara-free lashes. David was gone, she reminded herself. Even after two years, she couldn’t wrap her mind around it. He won the battle of cancer but lost the battle for his country. Honorable, his commander had said. A true hero for the fight for the downtrodden and forgotten. He had fought, he had lost, but he had been heroic.

        (Song: Plant Life by Owl City)

        A light flashed across the papered ceiling, bringing her out of depressing nostalgia. Her body screamed with sensations, sending a million warning signals to her dampened brain. She lay on a velvet sofa, the dark maroon fabric reminding her of the Victorian drawing room in the castle her family had rented when she was ten. _When David was home._ She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing slowly and deliberately. _You are not there. You are here. Focus. Sherlock and Dr. Watson are counting on you._

       “I’m glad you have awoken, my muse. I was beginning to worry that my associate had used too much compliance.”

        He spoke on a slant, the words rising and falling like a piece of driftwood on ocean waves. She knew it was Stanley before she tried to look. Her head refused to move. Panic filled her lungs. “Hello Mr. Stanley. While I appreciate your. . . .stamina in your pursuit of me, I must question your methods. Is there any way you can restore my muscle’s strength? I would like to sit up.”

       “I’m sorry, dove,” he moved from the darkened doorway, sliding through the room like a panther. Sitting in a brown leather chair across from her immovable body, he smiled so sincerely that she almost believed him. _What perfection of acting he has achieved._ “It will be quite some time before your body is restored. But take heart! You mind is sharper than ever. It is amazing what a few stimulants will do.”

        Her heart pounded. _The bug. Please let the bug be working._ Frowning, she tried to shift her legs anyway, placing a soft pout on her lips when they did not respond. “While I am honored that you would treat me so carefully, I need to know my purpose for this visit. I am nothing special, I assure you.”

        "Ah! Clever! The sidekick tries to get the villain to reveal his plan in a cliché monologue. But you see, I'm not the villain." He stood up from the chair, pacing back and forth, expelling energy of brilliance that so few noticed.

         Annie raised an eyebrow. It was increasingly frustrating to not know what he was feeling; to not understand that twisted mind. While she could sense emotions in waves, it was not consistent, not dependable. "You're certainly not a hero."

       "Oh no. I wouldn't claim to be that righteous. Just imagine how boring that would be! No, I'm something much more. . . average then that."

       "A cronie then," she deadpanned, her gaze roving over the dark walls. Walls filled with pictures of sunsets and winter fields and city streets at night and bears dancing and couples kissing and dark abysses and galaxies no man can see. Her hands twitched in defiance of whatever chains held her down, but no other movements were allowed.

        "No need to be so judgmental, dove. It's not a bad place in this world." He had lost his gracefulness. Now, little remained of the idealistic, dreamy murderer from her mind. The only thing left was the narrative, as if an audience were, at this very moment, watching with caught breaths. Waiting to see what happened next. Ironically, he would probably capture many breaths using her for his book. 

        “Are you going to kill me, Mr. Stanley?”

          “I’m sorry love. It must be this way. But you will become immortal through my pen. Think of it! Generations of people will look up to you and your heroism.”

         Suddenly, tears poured down his cheeks. “I really am sorry.”

         He pulled a large metal pole from behind the chair. Annie almost started screaming. _I’m going to die._ Something hard clentched in her throat. _If I am to die, it will NOT be in vain!_

         She wanted him to be hurt. To feel so much pain on her behalf that he would stop this madness before it was too late. _You have this gift. Use it._  It wasn’t her own voice in her head. Sherlock’s cunning mind seemed to have melded with hers.

          Slowly, painfully, she pulled down all the walls she had spent years building up. She let the emotions and the pain and the memories of a thousand people fall on top of her, a tsunami of sensory input from a million thoughts pouring over the dams she had built to hold them back.

          Tears ran down her face as he raised the metal bar of death, aiming for her sweating forehead. Every muscle in her body tightened, fighting against the drugs, fighting against her invisible prison, fighting against Death himself. But she was not her body. She was a million pieces of scattered fragments.

           The bar crashed down. The fragments froze, then rushed to the center of her mind, solidifying into one image. David, his uniform pressed and his cap tilted to one side, was holding a hand out to her.

            “Come on kiddo. I’ve missed you so much.”

           She sobbed and sobbed as the cold metal collided with her frozen body again and again and again. But she was free. She was home. She was in control. The emotions were too much, but that was ok. She was ok.


	7. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it comes to an end...….

Song: Truce by twenty one pilots

          The news anchor looked into the lens, schooling her features into diplomatic neutral. _I should get paid more for this job_. "Tonight's biggest story. Thanks to the famed Sherlock Holmes, another killer is put behind bars. Mark is at the scene. Mark, what can you tell us about this serial killer?"

          "Well, Cathy, I've seen some pretty brutal crime scenes in my career, but this is inhuman. As you can see behind me," he gestured at the caution tape behind him, reflecting the flashing blue of police cars, "this is a normally quiet, respectable neighborhood. The house behind me belongs to Edwin Arnold, a famous author who's pen name is Thomas Stanley. Ironically, he is the author of the famed detective series, _Mr. Bixby and Co._ , which has become an international best-selling series and recently was in the process of becoming a movie. Yet no one would expect what darkness was behind this man. While police have made no comments of yet, there is much speculation that he may have murdered upward of 15 people.”

           The news anchor forced a thoughtful expression, her makeup and clothes blaringly attention-grabbing. "Just awful, Mark. Do you have any information on his last victim?"

           "We don't have much to go on. Detective Lestrade, the leading man on this case, has yet to make any comments regarding the victim found in Mr. Arnold's living room. All we know is that it was a young woman, maybe in her early twenties. Unfortunately, there was so much damage to the body that officials have yet to ID her. Mr. Holmes himself is reported to have made the call to authorities, though he has yet to make an appearance. Wait, there he is! I'm going to try to talk to him."

          The young, slightly attractive reporter jogged over to a tall, black haired man stepping underneath a strip of yellow police tape. "Mr. Holmes! Can you tell us about the victim? What was she doing at Mr. Arnold's house? Where you present when she was killed? Do you know her name? Where is Dr. Watson?"

          The dark coated man glanced at the still-rolling camera. "No comment," he muttered, striding towards an ambulance sitting in the street. The reporter turned back to the camera, a slightly impish grin plastered on his face.

          "Well, there you have it Cathy. No more news so far, but we will keep up you updated."

          "Thanks Mark," he nodded, and the camera's focus returned to the news anchor. "Well, though he hates the attention, we can once again thank Mr. Holmes for stopping this monster."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading. I know the ending is a little lack-luster but I wanted it to be realistic. Your thoughts?


End file.
